Maharajah Mayhem

World Builder

2009-03-14T05:45:00.001-07:00

World Builder from Bruce Branit on Vimeo. (Hat tip: Yat Sat Go!)

Power to the Pink Chaddies

2009-02-12T20:14:00.007-07:00

The city I grew up in rarely makes news, much less pleasant news. When it does, it's always about some communal violence between Muslims and Hindus. So chances were that this city was going to produce a moron to rival the Thackerays sooner rather than later. And so happened Pramod Muthalik. I'm not sure if he lives there but he's got an office in the city. This guardian of so-called Indian values mobbed a pub in Mangalore and showcased Indian values by beating up a bunch of young girls for being "loose."

The rest of the "loose" crowd (which I'd count myself as proudly part of) would have none of it. The women among them started a Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women and began a campaign to politely ask Mr. Muthalik to sod off and let individuals choose their lifestyles. It's called the Pink Chaddi Campaign which essentially involves mailing pink chaddis (underwear/panties/unmentionables, if you will) to this gentleman's place in the hope that he'd see some common sense. In the words of India Uncut, it is a way of saying, “We will not let you terrorise us. Here, have a chaddi.”

If you happen to have an old pink chaddi, donate it. More info here.

One of those "Only in New York" things...

2009-01-07T19:29:00.002-07:00

Only in New York City do you find the necessity and the time to read while standing in line at the grocery store. The book in question: Shantaram. The store in question: Trader Joe's.

What in the heck is...

2008-11-03T15:25:00.003-07:00

The D-Day is looming and before you go cast your vote, you might want to ponder this all-important question. Just what in the heck's a Barack Obama? Our friend from The Onion attempts an answer to this riddle:

More'n likely, it's one of them things where you buy the Barack Obama, and then you gotta buy a bunch of other things just to make it work. That's how they get ya.

Shoot, better not tell the wife about it, or sure enough, she'll want one. And I'll bet you she'll use it once and then put it right back in the box and never use it again. Then I'll have a brand-new Barack Obama down the basement, sittin' there gathering dust right next to that fancy expresso machine she needed so bad and the kids' Furbies

One last thing

2008-10-13T08:31:00.007-07:00

The first of the Fab Five goes. The luminous lot will be a lot less luminous now. Sachin, Dravid, Laxman and Kumble - minus Sourav. Being from their age group, the way I identified my passion for cricket with these greats, watching them begin to hang up their boots is a very poignant reminder to me of the passage of time, a time to pass the baton and such. I think watching your favored sportsmen go is part of what sparks the midlife crisis men go through when you feel like the age of opportunity and adventure has drawn to a close and the age of sustenance and preservation dawns. I meant to ponder over this at length but the Demented Mind has already captured the essence of it:

It is strange this strong emotional connect we feel with sportsmen, a bond even stronger for those sportsmen you grew up with (for instance I do not think I will ever feel this kind of connection with Rohit Sharma or Suresh Raina simply because I evaluate them in a more “mature” way than I would do Dada or Sachin or as I used to Azhar). The ones for whom you put down your books, against your better judgment, the night before the exam. The ones for whom you stayed up all night, even knowing about the early train that needs catching. The ones whom you argued for (and against) with your friends over a cup of tea on rainy afternoons.

All these makes it that much difficult for us to let go of these childhood heroes in the same way as it is to throw in the bin an old beaten-up cockroach-eaten teddy bear or the first cricket bat you ever owned. Not so much because of Ganguly the person (after all I do not know him) or that bit of rickety wood with the picture of Sunil Gavaskar on it, but because of how much of yourself is in them. That is why we try to cling desperately to these relics from the past, by keeping the broken bat in the bottom of the trunk or by saying that surely he could have played another two years.

But one day the trunk does have to be cleaned and old players have to make that last walk into the shadows.

And all that remains are misty-eyes. And memories.

And an excellent tribute, from Sharda Ugra at India Today, to what I admired so much about Sourav Ganguly, the captain who turned a ragtag group of Indian cricketers into Team India.

Sourav Ganguly has always played cricket-and lived-on his own terms. His standards are uniquely his own, be it batting or fitness, success or failure. He could be a cricketer of sublime beauty and a competitor unafraid to look ugly, a man capable of great generosity and surprise, and an equally baffling source of frustration.

So when he said, "Just one last thing, lads..." at a conference in Bangalore, it could have been any last thing. The team is not practicing tomorrow. I'm going into politics. The Nano would have been good for Bengal. Close the door after you, please.

But instead, Ganguly surprised India yet again. He announced his retirement, left the galaxy of critics open-mouthed and off balance and before anyone had time to recover, Ganguly had left the building.

The 3:00 AM Call

2008-10-02T08:56:00.012-07:00

It's 3:00 am on a wet October morning and the phone rings, not at the White House, but at a Morningside Heights apartment in New York City. "Congratulations, you're now a Babai," says the voice on the line, "and both mother and baby are doing well." Whom did you expect to take that call?

Well, it was yours truly and the crackling voice on the line was that of my brother calling from Bangalore. Pardon the melodrama but I've just become an uncle all over again! My brother and his wife just had a baby -- a bonny baby girl. First time babai, a paternal uncle. I became a mama, a maternal uncle 16 long years ago when I was just 16.

Welcome Baby Girl! Can't wait to see you, can't wait for you to grow up old enough so I can spoil you rotten! You're sharing your birthday with the Father of the Nation. And you were born on the day of Eid. So, you couldn't have chosen a better day to make your way into this world. Well done, Baby Girl! Crazy world you've come into. A lot of ugliness, plenty of stupidity. But there's beauty and there's love -- two things worth stepping into this warm lake of humanity for. Hope you like it here. Hope you enjoy the ride. Your babai loves you!

Authentic Fine Dining in Bavaria

2008-09-12T21:56:00.006-07:00

Ever eaten at a full-blown Bavarian restaurant right out of Deutschland? The ambience, the service, the food, the service! Here's a brilliant Monty Python primer on what you can expect if you find yourself going on a date to one such restaurant...

I'm going to be a ski jumper

2008-08-15T14:51:00.002-07:00

Someone thinks I should be a ski jumper and try my luck at the winter Olympics. I participated in a "literary olympics" (link via this) and came out with this result:

You scored 5 out of a possible 10

Unplaced. You're Eng Lit's very own Eddie the Eagle. Perhaps you'd stand a better chance as a ski jumper?

iCrazy

2008-07-19T06:40:00.024-07:00

It's a sultry Friday morning and standing at the corner of 5th Ave and 59th St, I see a long beeline [line of applebees/maccabees?] going around the block and coming back up to the front until the tail touches the head; reminiscent of a throng of devotees around a shrine. The "shrine" in itself inspires devotion -- a sedate glass structure that will sooner or later find its Dan Brown and become the crux of a gripping story a la the gigantic glass pyramid at The Louvre. I wonder to myself what it would take for me to join the line and wait for several hours under a scorching sun just for the gratification of being among the first to get hold of it.

Quite a lot.

I come back the next evening. Lo and behold, the line is much shorter, but on enquiry I find that the average wait time is about 5 hours. I leave. Not to give up so easily, I come back the next evening and the story is much more hopeful. The line is about 3 hours long. Ah, these fanatics, I say to myself. I can't believe there are so many of them. Capitalism to feed fanaticism. Fanaticism to feed capitalism. But before I realized it, I became one of them. Them became us so effortlessly. I find myself in the line and a good 2 hours and 57 minutes into it. In my defense, the weather was gorgeous and it was a great day to be outside plugged to the ipod and catching up on reading. I'd have done that anyway sitting in Central Park. So why not do it near Central Park standing in a line? So I did it. And got much more entertainment in bargain.

The bees in the line were rather interesting. A couple with a shrieking toddler who was getting flustered by the minute and, in the process, flustering everyone else. A loquacious bloke holding a spot for his boss and giving away business cards as bookmarks. An agitated girlfriend with a bemused boyfriend. A clueless lady who had no idea of what she was in the line for, and I'm not making this up. Summers in New York City, one has got to get used to the wide-eyed wonder of the tourist brigade. Walking by with gigantic DSLRs, this particular bunch had no idea what the line was for. Curiosity getting the better of them, they mustered the courage to come up and enquire. On hearing the answer, they got wildly hopeful...

"Is it FREE?" [emphasis not mine] little knowing that there are crazy people out there who'd be so eager to lay down their wallets and sign away two years of their lives.

"No no no no no No NO NO, it's not free. But twice as fast at half the price."

And they clicked away pictures of us as if we were the Statue of Liberty. It was only polite that I flashed a smile back and held up a V-sign.

Now the line is moving slower than a snail would on a bad day. And the wait is doing things to people. For some cathartic and for others diabolic. Friendships were being made, and from an overheard overheated argument, relationships seemed to be breaking. I find bliss in the strains of Ghulam Ali in my ears and the gripping tale of Sacred Games in my hands. Finally I see myself near to the head of the line. A guy comes over, counts ten of us and herds us down into the sanctum sanctorum.

"White or black? An 8 or 16?"

A few minutes later, I'm in possession of a white 16. Not to be mistaken with a blonde 16 year-old, my beauty is much more pretty and rather curvaceous. And needless to say, oodles smarter. Easily the coolest thing I've ever owned. And I've been mesmerized by it every single day since.

Ladies and gentlemen, I went crazy for the iPhone. A white 16-Gig iPhone 3G.

Dynamic Skyscrapers

2008-06-26T22:28:00.007-07:00

I don't know why it took so long for anyone to come up with this idea, but better late than never -- a fascinating innovation to design skyscrapers that change shapes. Better yet, skyscrapers that don't fight the wind but harness it to generate power. Way to go, architects!

[Update: Here's a relevant poser for the architects from the infamous rediff message boards: Can it duck when a plane comes to hit it?]

The Enchantress of Florence

2008-06-21T09:32:00.008-07:00

Well, I picked up Salman Rushdie's latest The Enchantress of Florence and I'm hooked to it. It would be unfair to review it before I've finished reading it, attending a book reading and getting my copy signed by the author at the NYPL next weekend. Until then, stay tuned and meditate on his description of the world's most beautiful language... you guessed it right, Urdu:

...at first Persian and later also the bastard mongrel speech of the army on the move, urdu, camp-language, in which half a dozen half-understood tongues jabbered and whistled and produced, to everyone's surprise, a beautiful new sound: a poet's language born out of soldiers' mouths.

[Update: The book turned out to be a let-down. Started with typical Rushdie flourish but somewhere along the way the author forgot he was Salman Rushdie, the prince of modern prose. So I shall not venture another bad review -- there are a ton of them around already!]

Sea of Poppies

2008-06-21T08:11:00.011-07:00

Amitav Ghosh's new novel Sea of Poppies has been getting rave reviews since its been out. Set during the second half of the Raj, it seems to shed light on two major phenomena of the times -- export of opium and indentured labor out of India. I have yet to read it, but have been hearing about the book and its author in recent days. Out of all the interviews, this one stuck out to me -- highlighting how little Indians and the rest know of what actually happened in the last 300 years in that part of the world. Not that it needed Amitav Ghosh to tell us that, but the striking fact that opium trade was a major driver of the Raj economy.

Both Indian and British history appear to have glossed over this part of colonial rule.

Absolutely. Opium was the fundamental undergirding of our economy for centuries. It is strange that [even] for someone like me who studied history and knew a fair amount about Indian history, I was completely unaware of it.

Sea of Poppies appears to be a scathing critique of British colonialism. Do you think colonialism has had a pretty easy ride in India and there is not enough examination of the extent of how it affected the country adversely?

It's such an ironic thing. Before the British came, India was one of the world's great economies. For 200 years India dwindled and dwindled into almost nothing. Fifty years after they left we have finally begun to reclaim our place in the world. All the empirical facts show you that British rule was a disaster for India. Before the British came 25% of the world trade originated in India. By the time they left it was less than 1%.

Lot of Indians believe that the British built institutions, the police, bureaucracy.

I don't know what people think about when they say such things. When they talk about [the British building] modern institutions it amazes me. Was there no police force in India before the British came? Of course there was. There were darogas (policemen), there were chowkis (police stations). In fact the British took the word chowki and put it into English. So to say such things is absurd.

Here's the full thing on BBC. And another insightful tete-a-tete with the writer.

Before the Rains - A Review

2008-05-02T17:27:00.016-07:00

Movie: Before the Rains
Director: Santosh Sivan
Principal Cast: Linus Roache, Rahul Bose, Nandita Das, Jennifer Ehle, John Standing
Event: Tribeca Film Festival

The movie is due to begin at 7:30. After wrapping up work, I head down to the venue in East Village at 6:30 to stand in a line which out-snaked the snakes for other movies. And the line is not even for ticketed people but for rush tickets. The ticketed line is long enough already. At about 7:15, the line isn't moving forward, my backpack starts weighing me down, our legs are getting weary and we're getting jittery. Then, a festival volunteer walks around, counts 50-60 good-natured, patient New Yorkers from the very end of the line and politely advises, "There is no way in hell you are getting tickets for this movie, so you're better off leaving right now." Yours truly happened to be in that ill-fated motley crowd... So, loosen your tie, buckle your seat-belt, brace yourself: there will be no review... I know... I understand... I see your point... I hear you, but would you let me finish? I'm sorry for disappointing you but you're being unreasonable in expecting me to provide a hard-hitting, authoritative critique without actually seeing Santosh Sivan's handiwork. If you're really keen on it, you can read Tribeca Film Festival's program notes taken from here:

There's more than one storm approaching Kerala as that South Indian state is evoked in Santosh Sivan's Before the Rains. Set in 1937, in the long twilight of the Raj, the film's title refers most directly to the region's torrential monsoons. They are a yearly cataclysm against which spice baron Henry Moores (Linus Roache) must race to finish the road to his cardamom and clove plantation on the other side of the jungle. With his faithful aide T.K. (Rahul Bose) spearheading the project, Moores' road is indeed coming along nicely, but soon the friendship between the good sahib and his "man" will be sorely tested. Moores has developed a taste for a certain local spice, a beauty named Sajani (Nandita Das), Indian nationalism is taking hold all over, and the gun in the first act will go off by the third. This is British colonialism's last dry season. Adapting an episode in Israeli director Dan Verete's film Yellow Asphalt,Sivan and screenwriter Cathy Rabin move this story of lust, empire, and betrayal into E.M. Forster territory without breaking stride. Anyone who remembers the arid and utterly pukka Raj of A Passage to India will be brought up short by the lush country rendered by Sivan, however. A noted cinematographer as well as a director, Sivan shot Before the Rains himself, and his sensual visual style makes Moores' temptation to go native almost physically real. But the film's allegiance is ultimately with T.K., a good man caught between two cultures. Treated by Moores more like a partner than a servant, T.K. is a true believer in the imperial project. But loyalty to Moores shades into complicity once Sajani's husband learns she's been unfaithful and casts her out of his house. And then, the deluge.

Forty Five for Sixty

2008-04-28T16:52:00.015-07:00

This past weekend I attended a concert at the Town Hall. Zakir Hussain's Masters of Percussion organized by World Music Institute as part of their National Heritage Masters series of concerts.

It was a miracle that we (well, I conned Jono to go with me) made it inside because we couldn't buy our tickets in advance. Three days earlier when we checked the website for tickets, a nice neon sign greeted us, "Sold Out." But we (the con artist and the conned art) decided to go there anyway hoping to see if we could get rush tickets by way of a cancellation. Well, to our dismay, we weren't the only ones on the look out for those tickets. Reminiscent of a ball game (barring the fact that they were dressed much nicer here), there were people outside looking expectantly at every person hoping they had an extra ticket to sell. Anyone that looked like he/she's been stood-up were approached to find out if they had an extra ticket or two. To a Fortunate Few, there were a matching number of Unfortunate Few who'd been stood-up. We weren't among the Fortunate Few.

Little did I know that my experience of haggling with black-marketeers outside movie theatres in India would come good (Rangeela's "dus ka tees" anyone?) At a high-profile concert of all things! Just as my hope was turning to despair, a dude appeared from nowhere asking if I was looking for tickets. I was taken aback since I didn't know this ever happened in New York. Quickly recovering, I smartened up and haggled with him. Apparently I haggled good because, from an asking price of 120 bucks, he climbed down to 60 bucks apiece for a ticket that was worth 45 bucks. It was quite a bargain because we got the best seats. One was a row from the stage and the other was about 10 rows behind. Jono and I swapped seats at interval and so got both zoom-in and zoom-out views.

The concert itself was sublime and well worth the extra dollars. Tabla legend Zakir Hussain directed a whole bunch of virtuosos from various North Indian percussion traditions into a dazzling ensemble performing to the accompaniment of the sarangi and the sitar. Masters of Percussion indeed!

Listen to a sample here.

We rounded off the evening with a visit to Kati Rolls for some Shami Kebab wraps.

I can't believe I've seen Zakir Hussain in concert twice in less than 6 months! Last time I had seen him in accompaniment with Rahul Sharma on the Santoor. I could listen to him every single day and not get tired of the sounds he creates -- he's that magical.

I have to admit I've been trigger-happy with concerts since I've moved to the Big Apple. Six concerts by various artistes in six months is a pretty sweet deal. I've one lined up for the coming weekend -- a qawwali concert by some Pakistani artistes. Do I look like I'm bored here in the City?

Korbo Lorbo Jitbo

2008-04-20T13:40:00.019-07:00

The Indian Premier League has kicked off in style, what with American cheerleaders (you may want to click this link, or may be not), laser shows, Scottish soundtracks and Brendon McCullum's belligerence. Any cricket fan with an ounce of interest (and yes, love of cricket is measured in ounces and pounds) in the IPL probably has decided what team they're going to be supporting. One likes Brett Lee's raw pace and so will root for Kings XI Punjab. Another is a Sachin fan whatever team he is on, so Mumbai Indians it shall be. Or, some may hate Andrew Symonds and/or his dreadlocks so much that they can't root for the Deccan Chargers even if it's their home team. But I'm sure they've settled for some team or the other.

But I'm in a dilemma. Many pompoms have been been waved in the tournament so far, but I still haven't decided what team to root for. Some teams have players I like but have some caveat or the other -- for instance, an unimaginative team name like Mumbai Indians. Either that or they have certain Australian players I dislike more than I detest salad. Having a team to shout oneself hoarse is an important element of following cricket in India. Otherwise it'd be like watching the world cup after India's been jutted out, and that's just not cricket.

Initially I thought I'd support my home team, the Bangalore Royal Challengers, but the way they lost the first game, I had to immediately disown them. It's not a case of being a fair-weather fan. It's much deeper than that -- I'm sick of rooting for a team (read Team India) that loses more than it wins. I want a team that's winning. All the time.

So I thought I'd go for the Kolkata Knight Riders. The team's got the verve for sure. But then it's also got Ricky Ponting, and I can't root for anything that's got to do with Ponting, thank you very much. But their brand marketing has been impeccable and I love their anthem (embedded above). So I'm still a bit iffy about them.

Hyderabad's Deccan Chargers lost some of their charm when they paid that obscene amount (obscene=$1.3 million) to get Symonds. True that they have an aura of toughness as their star cast of big-hitters indicates (and as the video below suggests). I'll have to wait and watch how they progress in this tournament.

Chennai Super Kings have been exceptionally efficient in their first game, but they have such an awful name that I can't get myself to say 'Go Super Kings'. It just doesn't sound right. They also have the dubious distinction of paying the most amount of dough for a single run (that's the single that Mr. Dhoni scored in their match against Kings XI).

With a lame name like Mumbai Indians, I don't think I can be a fan, the indomitable Sachin Tendulkar notwithstanding. One also needs to consider the fact that Sachin so far has been playing in mediocre teams. He's so consistently skippered loser teams that you can safely bet your bottom rupee for any team that his team is playing against -- yes, even the royally challenged Royal Challengers. (Geez man, Ranji Trophy records don't count because he rarely ever plays for Bombay.) So if you go by that record, you'd want to steer clear of this team.

For now, I'm gonna decide ahead of each game which team I am rooting for and take it one game at a time. By the end of the tournament I'll probably have found a winner.

[Update: turns out that a team that did not even merit a mention on this post took the title. They're the Shane Warne-skippered Rajasthan Royals. Their clinical efficiency notwithstanding, their gaudy blue outfits are in the way of my becoming their fan, so spot still empty.]

Tum Chalo To Hindustan Chale

2008-04-20T13:34:00.002-07:00

If Music Be the Love of Food...

2008-04-04T20:36:00.004-07:00

It is a hard matter, my fellow citizens, to argue with the belly, since it has no ears.

--Plutarch (AD 46-120)

For someone who loves food enough to want to blog about it, you'd think we're a bunch of overachieving over-eaters. But you'll find one of us on the verge of being underweight; one on a rigorous diet that will ensure that every ounce of fat will fearfully vaporize in his vicinity; and another one whose favorite dish is a garden salad. Nonetheless, folks, we heart Food. We heart NY. And this is our tribute to what makes NY heart Food.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Foodie Collective.

[Crossposted on NYC Food Face]

Garage Band Gospel

2008-02-09T14:32:00.002-07:00

I did my bit to convert as many people as I could. Some impressionable ones have been easy, some hard-to-convince-or-even-pay-attention difficult, and some savvy ones wishy-washy. But they've converted nonetheless. If there is one person who needs to do something about his conversion and go for the real deal, it is me. Many of my pals are now steadfast believers. I'm a believer too. But I haven't yet walked the talk. I frequent stores and lovingly gaze at the new models. I play with a model whenever I get a chance. I even spend hours constructing what can crudely pass off as music on the coolest software that ever lived - Garage Band - on the Mac. But I've yet to take the leap of faith and buy my own MacBook. I firmly believe I will, one of these days.

In the meantime, check out some of my Garage Band compositions... [links to be updated]

1. Sunday (Piano, accompanied by the tabla)
2. Ripples of Reflection (A piano and tabla duet with cello flourishes)

[Forthcoming: my collaborative compositions with the Cribby Crab.]

Update: I did take the final leap of faith. And my feet firmly landed on Macland. I'm now a proud owner of a MacBook Pro. I can say it's the coolest gizmo I've owned. I even dropped it once [accidentally] but that machine is a fighter. It survived the fall and woke up from sleep like nothing happened. It was I who was rather shaken from the experience.

'Searching for the beast that lives in him'

2008-01-16T07:59:00.000-07:00

Which beast in particular, Comrade Pillai didn't say. Searching for the man who lives in him was perhaps what he really meant, because certainly no beast has essayed the boundless, infinitely inventive art of human hatred. No beast can match its range and power.

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Amrika to Indostan

2007-12-15T02:17:00.000-07:00

I left a David-shaped hole in New York to come fill a larger and rusty David-shaped hole here in India. And in the time between emptying one hole and filling another, I discovered that, to my delight, there can be a Christmas in the Middle East and that, to my great pleasure, there can be writers as enchanting as Rushdie (sans his ocassional verbosity).

NEW YORK - LONDON:
Wading my way through airport security at JFK, I found myself desperately trying to pull out my bulky laptop from an undersized sleeve to let it through the X-ray machine. But the sleeve wouldn't let the laptop from its deathly grip. So I asked the security person (a member of the specific demographic in NYC that I found to be the rudest) if I can let the sleeve and its slave in together. The request was graciously granted, and in all gratefulness, I promptly finished the first of my three-legged voyage to India -- JFK to Heathrow.

LONDON - BAHRAIN:
Turns out that clearing the security in the most vulnerable (and most heavily guarded city) in the world is not sufficient to board a flight in Heathrow bound to Bahrain. So I'm made to go through the motions once again. And as expected, the sleeve was enjoying holding onto the laptop a little too much to let go. So I make the same request to the security person (a similar demographic as his counterpart at JFK but for the gender). This guy just replies, "do you want a knife?" Appears he trusts me to weild a knife at the airport rather than trust my sleeve to hold nothing more than an unweildy laptop. Fortunately, The Sleeve decided that, under such circumstances, specially when held by its bottom and shaken violently, it is in its own interests to yield. The Laptop breathed a sigh of relief. So did I.

Amid reading the writer who is as enchanting as Rushdie which I shall get to momentarily, and chatting to a Canadian ex-hippie journeying to India to pursue her spiritual journey, I finished the second of three legs to India -- London to Bahrain. The same security motions there too, but unsurprisingly lax and relaxed -- with Bahrainian women in commando outfits and headscarves to boot. And then I discover the coolest Christmas set ever. If you ever wondered how Santa would drop in his goodies to the good kids of the Middle East, here's your answer...

BAHRAIN - BANGALORE:
As if the uniquely Middle Eastern Christmas set wasn't delightful enough, I found that the only music being piped-in on the flight was some Arabic children's music. While being enchanted by the writer as enchanting as Rushdie, I was mesmerized by these women singing to the good kids of Bahrain -- all the good ol' children's rhymes and songs from the West in chaste Arabic. How's that for enchanting! It was a welcome relief from snoring co-passengers, screeching toddlers and shuffling flight attendants. That about sums up the third of my three-legged voyage to India.

In the next entry, I shall cover the fourth of my three-legged voyage to India, and about the writer who is as enchanting as Rushdie. You're welcome to volunteer some guesses in the meantime, if you like. Till then, Happy Holidays (to the uninitiated, Merry Christmas - Happy Kwanza - Happy Hanukkah - Id Mubarak), shukran and al vida.

Dan's Statistics

2007-12-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

Well, the most unlikely and inconspicuous Gary Kirsten is the newest Team India coach. While he is elated at being offered the hottest job in world cricket, there are quite a few people who think he's insane for wanting to be the lamb being led to slaughter. His fellow countryman Dan Nicholl, in building a case for Kirsten's mental instability, has some interesting statistics to offer:

There are one billion people in India, give or take a couple of hundred million; at last count, three of them didn’t have an interest in cricket, five were only ‘reasonably passionate’, and less than a dozen didn’t think they should be actively involved in selecting the national team.

If you doubt Dan Nicholl's credibility, here are some references for you (courtesy his space on iafrica.com):

"He's an idiot" - Mike Haysman

"There is no-one in South Africa who knows less about sport" - John Smit

"I can't believe he's allowed to publish this" - Jabu Pule

"I did not have an affair with Dan Nicholl" - David Beckham

Welcome the iRack

2007-12-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, the iRack...

(HT: Good ol' Yatsat)

Myths and Realities

2007-11-26T19:04:00.000-07:00

Myth #1: On my birthday, I was given the Moon. I was on the lunar surface that was replete with mounds and craters. But the amazing thing was that, as I explored the surface of the moon, I saw little moon-rocks jutting out of the landscape. I zoomed out a little to get a bird-eye view and saw that you could make out some strange lettering out of the rocky arrangement. And on further examination, I found that it read "HAPPY B'DAY DAVID." Amazing, isn't it?

Reality: Devina baked a wonderful little chocolate cake that had little mounds and craters. She layered it with a film of icing and dotted the aforementioned greeting with chocolate chips. Very artsy, very yummy. No wonder I relished it like I did.

Myth #2: I am as old as the number of times the birthday song is sung to me. Since it was sung twenty one times, I figured I was 21.

Reality: Forever 21 is a myth. Throughout the day, Devina promised, she'd sing me the song every once in a while until she'd sung as many years as I'd been sojourning on this terra firma.

Every hour or so, she'd nudge me, "Hey..."

"Uh hmm..."

And she'd start singing "Happy Birthday to you."

Each time she was creative enough to make up a tune and sing it in a certain genre. Country, rap, rock, hindustani, bollywood. You name it, she sang it. She even took requests. At certain times, I'd play the conductor and have her sing to my tune. And after she'd done it twenty one times, she promptly forgot about the whole thing. And while the clock struck at midnight, she remembered she had to sing a few more but then it was too late. In effect, I'm solemnly stuck on 21 till my next birthday when I'd not turn 22 but 32. Talk about bringing someone crashing down to earth. All the way from the moon.

Thanks for the thoughtfully wonderful birthday, Devs.

And here's another special birthday present from none other than CribbyCrab...

Accidental in New York

2007-11-16T23:19:00.000-07:00

I realize life in New York is accidental. By this I mean, it's an accident if your day passes by uneventfully. So an eventful day is uneventful for a New Yorker. I've been told several times that New York is not a city that is conventional by any means and that I shouldn't be surprised by anything I see or experience here. People go about their lives calmly in the face of all the challenges thrown at them by this odd city. In the midst of everything that the City offers, there are unbelievable inconveniences. It gives you both the high pro and the low con in the same breath. If someone decides to live in the City, it's not because all their expectations and desires add up perfectly but because their heart tells them to.

So anyway, after all the high pro's, it was inevitable that I'd encounter a con here and there. This was a rather annoying con, and as I found out, a sort of a formal welcome to the City...

Tugging along laundry bags and a laptop case, Lloyd and I made our way up the slope to where my car was parked. I was to have dropped Lloyd at the laundromat on my way to work. And then Lloyd notices the state of my car. Lo and behold, my car has been broken into. There were all the sleek BMWs and stately Lincolns parked around me, but only my lowly CR-V was chosen. The rear vent was smashed and everything inside in disarray with stuff thrown all around. My glove compartment was emptied. I don't remember all that I had in the car, so I don't know what else they stole - at least a few CDs were gone including Morning Raga, and Piano Classics.

"@#$*!" was all I could muster.

Several minutes later, the cops showed up. They enquired if I had lost any valuables. I told them I lost a few classical album CDs. (Those suckers - the thugs, not the cops - didn't notice the expensive FM transmitter for my iPod sitting right there.)

Jon goes, "So these guys are going to go back to their hood and listen to Chopin?"

One cop goes, "Why are you listening to Chopin in your car?"

Pretending not to have heard him, I add that I just moved here from Texas.

They look around the car, inspect the damage and chime, "Welcome to New York."

What Women Want

2007-11-15T20:59:00.001-07:00

'A Train' Humor

2007-11-04T19:55:00.000-07:00

Just when you think subway operators don't have a sense of humor, they come up with this.

"Ladies and gentlemen, every coach has four doors on either side. I don't see a reason why you should all crowd towards one door. This is definitely not scholarship material. The A Train is never on time, but with your help we can make it less late..."

I know it's not laugh-out-loud funny, but it was funny enough for all the morose commuters to sit up and smile. Now that really is something.

Where is Dosaman?

2007-11-03T07:33:00.000-07:00

He's making the news. He's a critic's pick on New York Magazine. He recently won the Vendy Award for the best street vendor in New York City.

He's the dosaman selling his masala dosas on the fringes of Washington Square Park.

The Washington Square Park is a lively little park on the edge of Greenwich Village and NYU. Every single time I've been there, the place is buzzing with activity. On one corner, there's a black troupe regaling a captive audience with their humorous acrobatics. On another, there's a bunch of musicians playing some lively sailor songs. Then there's a brass band performing on another corner. There's no dearth of soloists on a cello or a guitar. And among all this, there are people just sitting around, or reading, or napping on the lawn. Then there's me, sniffing around for a hint of dosa in the air. My rudimentary nasal sensors once even misled me to a garbage bin. I've made several trips here in the hopes of finding him. I've walked around the place several times. But there's no dosaman to be found.

If you find him somewhere, do tell me. I'm craving masala dosa. With some chutney powder.

Meet Mr...

2007-11-03T07:27:00.001-07:00

Squirrel. Mr. Squirrel is not your regular run-up-the-trunk little guy. He's Mr. Squirrel from Harvard. Soon he will be Dr. Squirrel, the nutty professor.

We are the Champions!!!

2007-10-05T15:45:00.001-07:00

Ten days have passed since the event, and it just hit me. We won! Yay, we won! We are the world. We are the champions. We are the champions of the new face of cricket! India won the Twenty20 World Cup. As odd and oxymoronic as it sounds, India are the World Champions! What's more, in the dream finale of finales, in the mother of all matches, we beat Pakistan. We laid them all by the wayside. Australia, South Africa, England. Go India!

Here's the heart-stopping, stomach-churning, fist-clenching and ultimately mind-blowing final over:

Vanaja

2007-09-30T09:27:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I've wanted to live in cities like New York is the opportunity to be a first-row spectator of the arts. There are so many events happening around the city that can keep you engaged with the creative realm. This past week, Indian tourism ministry's flagship program - Incredible India - organized a set of events showcasing the arts, culture and cuisine of India at the Lincoln Center and Bryant Park. But the organizers' brilliant planning ensured that all events were during the week and not the weekend. I did miss all of them.

Unrelated to this, I was looking for movies to watch with Jon and Lloyd and came across this movie called Vanaja playing at a dinky little theater near Union Square so decided to go see it. The film had received rave reviews from Roger Ebert and others. Set in rural Andhra Pradesh, this movie depicts the coming-of-age story of a fifteen year old servant girl who aspires to be a Kuchipudi dancer. With no need to resort to the manufactured melodrama of Bollywood fare, the plot has enough drama of its own and is handled in a deft matter-of-fact manner -- intertwined with a sharp screenplay and gorgeous Kuchipudi sequences. What's amazing about this film is that it is a student film (made as a masters thesis at Columbia University) and members of the cast are all non-actors and never give you the impression that they are. Check the trailer here. And if the movie is playing in your city, don't miss it.

The director (Rajnesh Domalpalli) and the actor who played the title character (Mamatha Bhukya), who were present at the screening, did a short Q&A right after, and it was neat to hear the girl talk about the similarities between her and her character, and how she internalized the role.

The Mindboggling Puzzle of the Stairway

2007-09-07T14:36:00.000-07:00

Tipsy D: Why is the stairway upside down?

Tipsier A: Well, how else do you think you're gonna come down stairs?

By way of a prologue

2007-08-17T17:26:00.000-07:00

I know I know, I wrote all that jazz about posting my experiences of rediscovering India and haven't gotten around to it. My life has been sailing on choppy waters lately so I'm unable to put pen to paper without ending up with chicken scratches. (I hope you got that image of me seated on the deck of a boat in turmoil and attempting calligraphy!) Anyway, I made a short trip back memory lane and found this from my reading of Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh. It should be a good way to begin talking about discovery and rediscovery of India, a few days after the 60th anniversary of its rebirth (or should I say 60th rebirthday?)

I repeat: the pepper, if you please; for if it had not been for peppercorns, then what is ending now in East and West might never have begun. Pepper it was that brought Vasco da Gama's tall ships across the ocean, from Lisbon's Tower of Bel?m to the Malabar Coast: first to Calicut and later, for its lagoony harbour, to Cochin. English and French sailed in the wake of that first-arrived Portugee, so that is the period called Discovery-of-India but how could we be discovered when we were not covered before? We were 'not so much sub-continent as sub-condiment', as my distinguished mother had it. 'From the beginning, what the world wanted from bloody mother India was daylight-clear,' she'd say. 'They came for the hot stuff, just like any man calling on a tart.'

Rediscovering India

2007-08-05T19:59:00.000-07:00

I've been asked several times about how India-centric my interests have become lately. Questions have been asked about my obsession with Indian music (should say subcontinental because a good measure of it comes from Pakistan), tomes authored by Indians and Indian movies (non-masala types, may I add). I didn't really get an opportunity to respond to them and now I have an urge to address it once for all. Incidentally, India's 60th birthday is coming up, so the timing is on my side. Besides, it's a good exercise in laying these thoughts out coherently in my own head. Here goes...

The past couple years I have spent a great deal of time rediscovering India from afar -- precisely from half way across the globe. I wouldn't say the interest stems from homesickness, or a mild attack of nationalism. Once in a while I get homesick, it is true, but nationalism it is not. I detest the very idea of nationalism be it in India or America. At the root of my fetish lies a combination of things including a fascination with the concept of India and the idea of Indianness. Writing about this very theme as a "glossary of Indianness," Shashi Tharoor, author and former Under-Secretary General of the UN, attempts an assessment:

What does it mean to be an Indian? Our nation is such a conglomeration of languages, cultures, ethnicities that it is tempting to dismiss the question as unanswerable. How can one define a country that has 2,000 castes and sub-castes, 22,000 languages and dialects and 300 different ways of cooking the potato? Sixty years after Independence, however, it will no longer do to duck the question. For amidst our diversities we have all acquired a sense of what we have in common: the assumptions, the habits, the shared reference-points that constitute the cultural and intellectual baggage of every thinking Indian.

Of the gazillion pieces that make up the India puzzle, a few of them like music, art and literature hold my interest and I plan to write about them in a series of posts. Please stand by...

Jelly Beans, Harry Potter and Cricket

2007-07-31T16:18:00.000-07:00

So what do jelly beans, Harry Potter and cricket have in common?

Well, it is the second Test match of the ongoing series between India and England.

Turns out jelly beans fired up one India player to exceptional performance while Harry Potter led to another's ludicrous performance.

When some England players "left" a few jelly beans on the pitch, Zaheer Khan was infuriated and brandished his bat at the Englishmen. He then went on to snare five of their batsmen to champion an India win. Dravid was very pleased with the outcome: "If he's going to perform like this, can we please get him upset after every game! I've never seen him as fired up. He came into the dressing-room really keyed up, so please, if you're going to upset our boys, and they're going to perform like this, I'll be more than happy."

As regards Harry's effect on the other player, Andrew Miller of Cricinfo has this to say: "And yet, if England's childishness (or "mental disintegration" as Vaughan would dearly love to be able to call it) was seen to backfire on one of India's players, then it arguably scored a direct hit on another. Sreesanth, the breakdancing bundle of energy from Kerala, had a shocking Test match. Teased for his apparent resemblance to Harry Potter while batting, he bowled like one of Voldemort's stooges - ineffective, erratic and at times downright ugly. He sent Pietersen, the object of India's ire, crashing to the turf with a whistling beamer, and then aimed a vicious bouncer at Collingwood after overstepping by almost a metre."

Whatever it is, bottomline is that all five days of the game were thoroughly engrossing and India won a famous victory. Only the fifth time on English soil in seventy five years! And as you'd expect, the candy episode is making more headlines in England than their loss. Their loss, really.

Understanding Similes

2007-07-17T17:28:00.000-07:00

Here's a brilliant op/ed piece on no other than The Onion. A guy waxing eloquently honest about his lack of similie sense...

Now, I may be as pessimistic as a cucumber, but my similes are sorely lacking. But believe you me, it's not from lack of trying! I spout off more similes than a one-legged dog in a haystack, but as sure as China, they always seem to fall flat. To tell it plain, my similes are confusing as the day is wrong, as disappointing as two peas in a pigsty, and more obscure than Kenneth from marketing (the guy who's as big as a thing that's six-feet-tall and 200 pounds). All in all, they're not good.

At first, I dealt with the problem by denying like a fish in cowboy boots. When people would ask me if I could align two unlike objects in a witty comparison, I'd answer, "Yes, just like the mayor of a major city." For a while, things went like a lubricated surface with no textural aberrations, but then it was like August 26 all over again. If you can imagine!

Read the full thing.

A Day Without Rain

2007-07-03T16:54:00.000-07:00

I know I'm a late bloomer when it comes to finding music or movies but I'm hopelessly hooked to this album by Enya...

Now I'm a little concerned about my "I'm hooked to..." series of entries and not just because it shows the obsessive side of me. Perhaps I'm even secretly delighted to allow myself to be obsessed with music. But everytime I'm "hooked" to an album, I'm essentially sealing my experience of the music with the prevalent thoughts and moods. On my day, I can pay attention to the technical details of the music I am listening to, but to a large extent, I let it wash over me in an emotional kind of way. And as the experience of being hooked is imprinted in my memory, the events happening around this time of my life get entwined with it too. So after a while, I finally unhook myself from the album and find new stuff to obsess over. Several months or years down the line, I come around to listening to the album again, and all those memories cascade back with uncanny detail. Sometimes it is good to get back those wonderful memories of days bygone. The road trips, the fun times singing along with my sis and bro, the walk along Fifth Avenue. But it can also remind me of incidents that I'd rather have forgotten. The sad times, the times I've irredeemably embarrassed myself and what not.

I'm sealing Enya's ethereal compositions in A Day Without Rain with images of my current mood and thoughts and when I listen to it later, I'm afraid all of them will come back. And I want to be able to enjoy music without such emotion in attendance. As it is, I'm carrying a whole load of memories and emotions along with the 20 gig worth of music on my ipod. Now that's a lot of baggage, don't you think?

An Equal Music

2007-06-28T16:44:00.000-07:00

The book is interspersed with passages that are like music to the mind's ear. An Equal Music, a novel by Vikram Seth, was such a refreshing change from another work of fiction that I quit reading of boredom: Coronation Talkies by Susan Kurosawa. An Equal Music is an intense love story set against the backdrop of western classical music. While the plot was decent, I thought Vikram Seth did such a splendid job at conveying the ambience of classical compositions in words that you can almost hear the music in your head as your read it. I can't resist posting one of the passages that I had highlighted in the book. To set the context: the narrator, playing second fiddle in the string quartet called The Maggiore, is talking about a particular performance. The venue is the Wigmore Hall in London, "the sacred shoe-box of chamber music." The music is Haydn's opus 20 no. 6 in A major.

Dying, undying, a dying fall, a rise: the waves of sound well around us even as we generate them... Our eyes are on our music; we hardly glance at each other, but we cue and are cued as if Haydn himself were our conductor. A strange composite being we are, not ourselves any more but the Maggiore, composed of so many disjunct parts: chairs, stands, music, bows, instruments, musicians - sitting, standing, shifting, sounding - all to produce these complex vibrations that jog the inner ear, and through them the grey mass that says: joy; love; sorrow; beauty. And above us here in the apse the strange figure of a naked man surrounded by thorns and aspiring towards a grail of light, in front of us 540 half-seen beings intent on 540 different webs of sensation and cerebration and emotion, and through us the spirit of someone scribbling way in 1772 with the sharpened feather of a bird.

I love every part of the Haydn. It is a quartet that I can hear in any mood and can play in any mood. The headlong happiness of the allegro, the lovely adagio where my small figures are like a counter-lyric to Piers's song; the contrasting minuet and trio, each a mini-cosmos, yet each contriving to sound unfinished; and the melodious, ungrandiose, various fugue - everything delights me. But the part I like best is where I do not play at all. The trio really is a trio. Piers, Helen and Billy slide and stop away on their lowest strings while I rest - intensely, intently. My Tononi is stilled. My bow lies across my lap. My eyes close. I am here and not here. A waking nap? A flight to the end of the galaxy and perhaps a couple of billion light-years beyond? A vacation, however short, from the presence of my too-present colleagues? Soberly, deeply, the melody grinds away, and now the minuet begins again. But I should be playing this, I think anxiously. It is the minuet. I should have rejoined the others, I should be playing again. And oddly enough, I can hear myself playing. And yes, the fiddle is under my chin, and the bow is in my hand, and I am.

Jalebi

2007-06-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

Another ancient Indian ad commercial...

The New Paris Hilton and Britney Spears

2007-06-14T08:35:00.000-07:00

Stale news but here's Osman Samiuddin's take on the state of cricket in India and Pakistan:

... they are cricket's Paris Hilton and Britney Spears. One, pure monied trash, influential for no other reason than having too much of it, the other straight-up trailer trash, cricket's true basket case. They are tabloid fodder, stumbling from one front page to another: religion, player factionalism, spats, coaching intrigues, politicking, doping and even possible murder. How much of the news that you have read about these two sides recently has been about their cricket?

No prizes for guessing who matches up with whom.

Ocean's Thirteen

2007-06-09T22:41:00.000-07:00

Just got back from Ocean's Thirteen. I've no idea how the movie is. I slept through it all. On my way out of the theater, I overheard someone say 'funky movie' and that's my kind of film. Gotta go back and watch it soon.

Refugee Camp

2007-02-11T21:45:00.000-07:00

Watch this rather short but sobering report on a refugee camp in the heart of London...
(From "Goodness Gracious Me")

What I'd been up to in 2006

2007-01-03T22:00:00.001-07:00

My lone audience complained the other day that I've yet to do my year end books-read-and-movies-watched list, so this post is in her honor.

Apart from rapidly putting on the pounds, I also watched a lot of movies although I didn't read as much as I'd hoped to. But having an Angelika theatre for a neighbor meant that I got to see a ton of independent/artsy-fartsy movies. Adding Netflix to the mix, and my list goes endless. Fortunately for you, I don't remember them all which means I'll only list memorable ones in no particular order.

In keeping with Oscar buzz, started off the year with movies like Joyeaux Noel, Tsotsi, Brokeback Mountain, etc. Thanks to movie studio grills in Texas, I managed to live the movie version of that famous old Coke ad ["Eat Cricket, Sleep Cricket, Drink Only Coca Cola"] -- I ate and slept while the movies played. The movies in question: Nanny McPhee and Cars. And I drank Long Island Iced Tea.

I've seen some exceptional Brit films this year. Two of them were Mrs. Henderson Presents and The Queen showcasing two vintage queens of British cinema (Judi Dench and Helen Mirren). I should add Casino Royale to the mix although Mr. Bond is no queen, and he's vintage neither. And oh yes, there was Pirates of the Carribean. And Match Point.

Semi-political satires included Thank you for Smoking, and what was that movie where the President is invited to be a judge on that talent show? American Dreamz? I couldn't miss out on the cultural learnings of America for make benefit glorious nation of Kazakhstan. Borat was brilliant, so I'll club this movie in with the political satires.

From the world of Indian parallel cinema I got to see Morning Raga, Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi, Mr. & Mrs. Iyer, Page 3, and Deepa Mehta's Water. I promptly fell in love with Carnatic fusion music (Morning Raga), and Chitrangada Singh (HKA).

One fine evening, we intended to watch Half Nelson and sat in a theatre for half an hour only to realize that the movie playing was about old people on a beach. We then walked out and came back half an hour later to the right theatre. I don't think I got half my money's worth because I was half asleep for half the movie.

No movie list is complete without a few Bollywood blockbusters -- Lage Raho Munnabhai, Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna, Rang De Basanti, Golmaal.

The book I started reading back in 2005 still remains unfinished in 2007. Midnight's Children. To dispel any doubt -- I love Salman Rushdie's works, he's brilliant; but I can't get past this section going on and on about the 1971 war. But that didn't keep me from getting started on his latest Shalimar the Clown. Then came The Alchemist, The Impressionist, The Namesake, The Eagle Has Landed all in fiction. A humorous light-read Plane Insanity. And then Freakanomics, and A Brief History of Time.

Musical addictions of the year -- Bruce Springsteen's The Seeger Sessions - We Shall Overcome; Strings' Dhaani; Hariharan's most excellent Lahore ke Rang Hari ke Sang; A.R. Rahman's Rang De Basanti and the Globe Trekker Theme. Honorable mention - Mynta. Continued obsessions from last year - Morning Raga, Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi, Hazir.

Swaad Zindagi Ka...

2006-11-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

Here's one of my all time favorite ad commercials way back from when I was growing up in India...

Between New York City and Amsterdam

2006-08-27T01:10:00.000-07:00

Forewarning: I have been reading The Alchemist on this flight, hence this post might be interspersed with references to the theme of the book.

After a chaotic final hour leading to my arrival at the JFK, I saw the 747 at the gate I was supposed to board the flight to Amsterdam. It brought a little bit of excitement to a strange lack of emotion leading up to this pilgrimage. I love this giant beast and I am the only other of the couple people I know who make travel plans based on what city they get to stop over at and what airline flies the Boeing 747, one being Vinod. And my first step onto the plane started with an omen -- I dropped my laptop case. While I don't know if it's a good omen or bad, I do know it's part of my Personal Legend. Considering that I am composing this on my laptop, I'm happy to announce that it survived the fall. That is the laptop's own Personal Legend. But I guess I can only tell you how the Soul of the Laptop is connected to the Soul of the World after the vacation is over. Besides, I have to finish the book to understand how this alchemy works.

Anyway, I have to say that I had a great visit to the Big Apple. Besides hanging out with Jon and Lloyd, I got to see my best bud of yore -- Kumar. That was one of the highlights of my visit. This time I got to see Manhattan from the Top of the Rock -- the rooftop observatory of the Rockefeller Center. Magnificent views of the cityscape. Also, I think it is worth reporting that the saga of my love affair with The Producers continues. We watched the show at St. James last night. Didn't really expect the show to have such excellent production value. No wonder it continues to be one of the hottest shows on Broadway running into its sixth year. Inability to complete my antibiotics course notwithstanding, an enjoyable visit.

I will post a few of my favorite shots once I get home.

Presently, I shall return to my glass of cabarnet sauvignon and The Alchemist.

A Sojourn Begins

2006-08-25T00:59:00.000-07:00

I guess I'm going to blog again. I'm stuck at an airport with a laptop, a chai tea latte and a chocolate chip cookie. So I guess that makes for a good setting to do nothing else but blawg. Well, my day began over 24 hours ago but I really woke up when I had to call the Yellow Cab at 2 am and the lady couldn't get what I was saying.

"A what road?" she yelled.
"A Martin Road" I shouted back.

"A who?"
A David Xxxx.

"A when?"
A 4:am.

Don't you think my Indian accent would be much more understandable than her Texas-twanged black accent? Anyway, the cab did turn up at 4:00 am and I bundled into it lock stock and barrel. Saddled with an impressive assortment of perfume and radio-controlled toy cars, I had a rather solemn drive to the airport.

Thanks to the Orange alert by the Department of Homeland Security, of all the people, they had to pick me for the special screening. When they say "special screening" you'd think it was a sneak preview of your favorite movie. But no, it was of my person. They felt all over my body and went through my baggage. They found a bottle of listerine in my laptop case which I promptly asked them to keep. They did. In the trash. But I have no hard feelings for being the unlucky one since they were rather polite. Perhaps they understood my discomfort at being touched all over first thing in the morning.

Anyway, I got onto the plane and promptly fell asleep and woke up only as we were making our descent into the Atlanta airport. Fond memories of my last visit to this airport six years ago duly returned. I had then missed my plane to San Francisco because the Amtrak I had to take from lowly Clemson arrived late. I then had to wait for a few hours walking around doing nothing (that was in the Pre-iPod era). Anyway, as soon as I stepped onto the concourse, I was ushered in with a garble of pure Southern. As much as people find it funny, I think it's rather lovable albeit a bit tedious to understand. I wish I could quick find a "Learn To Drawl in 30 Minutes or Less."

So here I am sitting at the airport and waiting to board the flight that would take me to the most inconvenient of the airports that serve the Big Apple - La Guardia. Jonathan is to take off from work and pick me up at 31st Street and Ditmars. He gave a helpful suggestion to remember the street intersection: A 31 year old Daniel In Tamilnadu Means Another Rough Stay. If only I can remember 'a how many year old' Daniel is.

By the way, if you happen to be one of my health-conscious friends, you must be livid that I'm eating a chocolate chip cookie. I admit it doesn't do favors to my untiringly ever-expanding tire, but this is among the few things I can eat knowing that I wouldn't need to use the syringe to clear out the 'footprints' of the felled wisdom teeth. The airport wallahs wouldn't let an extraction syringe in my cabin baggage.

This is the first leg of my long-awaited pilgrimage to Motherland (I mean India and not England, you Russel Peters fanatics!). I halt in New York City for a couple days to hang out with pals Jon, Lloyd and Kumar. I then take off to Motherland for a near-month long stay. My plan is to halt for a day in Amsterdam on my way back to the States. Thought I'd get my tourist visa in New York but looks like I'll have to wait until I get to Delhi. Let's see how it pans out.

Paintbrush Drawings: A River Runs Through It

2006-07-07T22:19:00.000-07:00

A Texan Sunset

2006-07-04T19:48:00.001-07:00

A drink offering to the heavens...

2006-07-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

An Acute Case of Foot-in-Mouth

2006-05-30T13:54:00.000-07:00

At the beginning of the India-West Indies ODI cricket series, I sent out a rather haughty email to a friend from the Caribbean saying how India would ruthlessly rout the West Indies. As the series progressed, we exchanged a further bunch of emails that demonstrate how not to bank on your team (especially if it is Team India playing overseas).

At the end of the first game (India 1; West Indies 0)
Me: I'm sorry but we Indians are too good for you West Indians.

At the end of the third game (India 1; West Indies 2)
Gracious Caribbean Friend: Well...I guess the tables are turned now eh... hope you don't hate us because we won two in a row.

Haughty Me: My dear friend, we're talking about India. We will come back to win the series. Just wait and watch.

At the end of the five-match series (India 1; West Indies 4)
Sheepish Me: I expected you to send me an email taunt...

The Incredibly Gracious Caribbean Friend: I meant to email you but did not want to rub it in.

Unveiling the Durbar

2006-05-10T18:51:00.000-07:00

Any maharajah worth his salt craves for a change once every while. Perhaps a new courtesan, a new palace, or a new elephant. Some maharajahs of old simply got bored, went out and conquered a neighboring kingdom. This maharajah, however, couldn't afford one more courtesan or another palace. In a previous post he decided that a pet elephant was not for him. And no vini, vidi, vici either -- he has had enough of one country invading another. So he just decided he'd change the look and feel of his cyber space. While he was at it, he got a new title and a new tagline as well. [Actually, the alliterative mouthful of a tagline came free with the title :-) ]

So here it comes...

Maharajah Mayhem:
meandering musings of a mildly maniacal, mildly melancholic and wildly mild-mannered maharajah

Before you jump to conclusions and decide this blogger is one egomaniacal maharajah-wannabe, do listen to the legend of this maharajah. Back when he was little, in first grade, the pastor of his church was very fond of him -- he used to be a regular church-going, memory-verse-contest-winning kid. So the pastor used to fondly call him Maharajah. Therein lies the beginning of this maha legend. And then he had an elementary school teacher who'd call him King David, in reference to the Old Testament hero. Although he did not get to fell a Goliath (well, he did kill his share of metaphorical Goliaths) nor did he get to bed a Bathsheba, he came to be known as King David. And now, while he lives in the New World, he longs for something he can hold on to from his homeland. Since he comes from the land of snake charmers and maharajahs, he decided to take the moniker Maharajah. Besides, it was more apt than being called Snake Charmer anyway. Without getting into further detail, let me just say that his world is full of mayhem (and he loves it). Hence the title.

If you came here looking for The Weblog of David, just know that it's only got a new skin and a new name. Everything else is the same (sadly). Including the sporadicity (is that even a word?) of entries. Hopefully they'll be better written entries.

So without further ado, welcome to the Maharajah's durbar!

Broken Burrito

2006-05-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

Today I went down to the cafeteria to get my lunch as usual. Since it was a long time that I had been to the Mexican food stall, I decided to go there. The guy behind the counter seemed new.

I asked for my regular burrito. With steak, refried beans, rice, bell peppers, lettuce, cilantro and black olives. To be topped with melted queso.

He awkwardly picked up a giant white tortilla trying to balance it on his palm. He gingerly added the ingredients and began wrapping the tortilla. He was unsure what ends to fold first. Perhaps he was a bit hard on the tortilla, but before it could be called a burrito, the thing had ripped.

He dumped the whole thing and started back from scratch. And second time with the same result. Third time, while I watched on amused, he got his supervisor to help him. Luckily for him, the supervisor was more helpful than impatient.

The guy looked as Mexican as his supervisor and I can't imagine that he never made a burrito before. Filling up the tiny container with salsa, I wondered how it would look if an Indian couldn't mix his rice and dal with his fingers. Or a Chinese person to not be able to eat rice with sticks.

The Blind Men and the Elephant

2006-05-02T15:37:00.000-07:00

Today I had a lengthy conversation with my colleagues about elephants. Trust me, pachyderms can make for lively conversation. I was taken back to my childhood years when I attended this circus where they put up a skit starring two lovable asiatic elephants. I remember there was a wayward drunkard elephant with a liquor bottle in his trunk. (Fact: elephants once made news in India for getting drunk from vats of country liquor and attacking villages.) Partying all night, he cannot maintain his balance and collapses to the ground with a thud. Enter Dr. Elephant. He's an expert medical professional with an FRCS from London. (How do I know? Well, he had a huge board strung around his neck that said so.) With his giant stethoscope he examines his patient and decides it's time for injecting some wonder medicine. Seems like a good doc because the patient revives right away. Rising up to his fours, he profusely thanks the doctor (gesturing with his trunk... handy thing that trunk) and they both walk away happy. Those elephants... they always have a good story to tell.

I also remembered reading a parable, in elementary school, involving elephants that dates back to thousands of years. Here's the John Godfrey Saxe rendition of this ancient Indian fable...

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind

The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!”

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, “Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ’tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!”

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a snake!”

The Fourth reached out an eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
“What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,” quoth he;
“ ‘Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!”

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!”

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

Betrayed...

2006-03-22T21:31:00.000-07:00

I feel betrayed. At lunch time (my "better-be-in-bed-if-you-hope-to-make-it-to-the-6.30-am-meeting" time) they were respectably (it's all relative, mate) at 75/3 with Sachin in good nick and Dravid as wallful as ever. But how did this happen? In between the next 25 runs they managed to lose all 7 wickets. I'm mourning. Largely for my loss of valuable sleep, and for the lump that rose in my throat first thing this morning on looking at the cricinfo scorecard. Did I mention I feel betrayed?

My Year in Lists

2005-12-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

Books read: Letters and Papers from Prison (Dietrich Bonhoeffer), Maximum City (Suketu Mehta), London: A Biography (Peter Ackroyd), Made in America (Bill Bryson), Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown, ugh), The Moor's Last Sigh (Salman Rushdie, of course), The Death of Vishnu (Manil Suri), Midnight's Children (Salman Rushdie all the way) [still reading], Adventures of a Continental Drifter (Elliott Hester)

States visited outside Arizona: Texas (between brown earth and gray sky), Nevada (parched landscapes and dazzling lights), New Mexico, Colorado (drive-thru the clouds), Utah (if Four Corners counts), New York, New Jersey (turnpikes and tunnels), California

Countries visited besides the United States: Mexico, United Kingdom, India

Major cities visited outside Phoenix: London (finally!), Bombay (goodness gracious!), Chennai, Las Vegas, New York City (wow!), Los Angeles (phew!), San Francisco (yay!)

Memorable movies watched: Crash, March of the Penguins, Walk the Line, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Finding Neverland

Music hooked to: Between Heaven and Earth (A.R. Rahman), Kandisa (Indian Ocean), Morning Raga, Bose: The Forgotten Hero (A.R. Rahman), Mariage d'Amour (Paul de Senneville), Bittersweet Symphony (The Verve), Spem in Alium (Thomas Tallis)

Broadway shows attended: Les Miserables (touching), The Woman in White (boring), The Phantom of the Opera (classic), Rent (yawn!)

Concerts attended: The Trans-Siberian Orchestra (a-m-a-z-i-n-g)

Weddings attended: Sumi and Danny [in absentia :-( ]; Mike and Natalie; Nithya and Naveen

Raffles won (however undeservingly): World Market gift certificate for an unknown value. Have yet to use it.

Of Dead Rubbers and Drawn Tests

2005-11-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

Out of the several aspects of cricket that baffles the Americans, the concept of the draw ranks high. Many of them just cannot understand how two teams, after five long days on the field, can manage to walk off with neither a victory nor defeat. Now one wonders what they will make of the dead rubber. How can two teams, after one has clinched the seven-match series 4-0, carry on playing the next three? The NBA finals are played over seven games too, but the moment the series is settled, no more points are scored and all action ceases.

Welcome to the world of cricket. There is momentum to be sustained, morale to be dented, pride to be salvaged, reputations to be restored, individual glory to be attained, personal battles to be won and there's an audience to be entertained. And it's not as if the masses, or the sponsors, are going to be turned away just because the games are only of academic interest. In fact, the situation might have been exactly the same had the scoreline been reversed and Sri Lanka been leading 4-0. We just love our cricket in these parts, don't we?

Read the full preview of the fifth India-Sri Lanka match by Siddhartha Vaidyanathan on Cricinfo.

Labor of Love for Rachel

2005-10-23T23:25:00.000-07:00

2005-09-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

Face to Face Conversation at the RMA

2005-09-30T20:16:00.001-07:00

A View From MoMA

2005-09-30T20:04:00.000-07:00

St. Patrick's in Reflection

2005-09-30T20:00:00.000-07:00

Times Square

2005-09-30T19:56:00.000-07:00

A view of Mountain Village from the Gondola

2005-09-08T19:58:00.000-07:00

Gorgeous outside; icy cold inside

2005-09-08T19:54:00.000-07:00

Telluride Traffic

2005-09-08T19:48:00.000-07:00

The saga of the shoe:

2005-09-08T19:28:00.000-07:00

David slipped in a brook at Telluride
"Fudge! my shoe is all wet now!" he cried
"Relax Dude" Sanchi said,
"Just toast it with the bread,
But would you like that with fries on the side?"

(A limerick by Errolowl)

Morning Raga

2005-08-26T14:56:00.001-07:00

I'm hooked to the music of...

More Equal

2005-08-11T09:16:00.000-07:00

"Let me say this improves the balance. Whatever balance existed, it further improves the balance. So that is the significance of the Babur missile that we fired," said Pakistan President Musharraf in talking about the test-firing of a cruise missile. 'Babur' sounds like the name of the Mughal invader from Persia. Pakistan has a penchant to name their missiles after the invaders of India. It does seem appropriate to do so considering that everything their Defense does is an effort to "improve the balance" with India. To me, the statement seems no more significant than sounding like a variation on all men are equal but some men are more equal than others. Here are some stats that show how India is more equal than Pakistan:

Pakistan:
Defence budget: 224 billion rupees ($3.75 billion) for 2005/06.
Estimated nuclear warheads: 25 to 50.
Troops: active 619,000; reserves 513,000; paramilitary forces approx. 290,000.
Army: tanks approx. 2,460; artillery approx. 2,000; armoured personnel carriers approx. 1,250.
Air force: Combat aircraft approx 415.
Navy: submarines 8, surface combatants 7.
Missile types and ranges: Shaheen 1 (600 km/375 miles), Shaheen 2 (Up to 2,000 km/1,200 miles), Ghauri 1 (1,500 km/940 miles), Ghauri 2 (2,300 km/1,440 miles), Hatf 1A (100 km/63 miles), Hatf 2 (180 km/110 miles), Hatf 3 (290 km/180 miles), cruise missile Babur (500 km/310 miles).

India:
Defence budget: 830 billion rupees ($19 billion) for 2005/06.
Estimated nuclear warheads: 100 to 150.
Troops: active 1,325,000; reserves 535,000; paramilitary forces 1,089,700.
Army: tanks approx. 3,898; artillery approx. 4,500; armoured personnel carriers approx. 300.
Air force: Combat aircraft approx. 680.
Navy: Submarines 16, surface combatants 25 including one aircraft carrier, eight destroyers and 16 frigates.
Missile types and ranges: Agni 1 (2,500 km/1,560 miles), Agni 2 (3,000 km/1,875 miles; upgraded, up to 3,500 km/2,190 miles), Prithvi SS-150 (150 km/94 miles), Prithvi SS-250 (250 km/156 miles), supersonic cruise missile Brahmos (290 km/180 miles).

Statistics from Reuters

On top of the world

2005-07-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

Check out these 3D illusions on pavement. Julian Beever's amazing pavement drawings...

2005-07-20T01:57:00.000-07:00

Indo-US relations haven't quite recieved such attention since India tested its nuclear devices back in 1998. Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh is in Washington making a pitch for closer Indo-US ties. Despite the fact that India, a nuclear power, is a non-signatory of the Non-Proliferation Treaty, President Bush has agreed to assist India with its civilian nuclear program. This is big news. While one Indian news source is ruing that American media is not paying much attention, I am pleasantly surprised that there is this much coverage. Being sick of watching irrelevant local news, I typically turn to BBC World Service on NPR for a decent reporting on world affairs. I guess I'm quite happy with whatever coverage this high-profile visit is getting on C-Span, here on New York Times, and here on Washington Post.

How I lost a friend to Harry for two days...

2005-07-16T00:57:00.000-07:00

Harrymania in action

Blurry Chocolate Fondue

2005-07-15T00:40:00.000-07:00

A blurry picture of Chocolate Fondue -- celebrating the birthday of Errol Owl.

Omnipotent Laws

2005-07-14T23:48:00.000-07:00

Ha, I couldn't resist posting these... Hat tip to my friend Essen from Bombay who forwarded these to me...

Law of Mechanical Repair:
After your hands become coated with grease, your nose will begin to itch.

Law of the Telephone:
When you dial a wrong number, you never get an engaged one.

Law of the Alibi:
If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the next morning you will have a flat tire.

Variation Law:
If you change queues, the one you have left will start to move faster than the one you are in now.

Bath Theorem:
When the body is immersed in water, the telephone rings.

Law of the Result:
When you try to prove to someone that a machine won't work, it will.

Law of Biomechanics:
The severity of the itch is inversely proportional to the reach.

Theatre Rule:
At any event, the people whose seats are furthest from the aisle arrive last.

Law of Coffee:
As soon as you sit down to a cup of hot coffee, your boss will ask you to do something which will last until the coffee is cold.

Indian Railways

2005-07-11T23:56:00.001-07:00

Image Courtesy: Wikipedia

Today I stumbled upon a treasure trove -- the IRFCA (Indian Railways Fan Club). The website contains an impressive collection of pictures, travelogues and articles by railfans, specifically fans of Bharatiya Rail. Going through the galleries brought back memories of growing up as a son of the Railways. I remember spending summer afternoons poring over Dad's technical journals and manuals; making toy-trains with cardboard, and fantasizing about train journeys far and wide. The childhood thrill of rail journeys is one of the memories I will take to my grave.

Right from the days of steam locomotives when we'd cling to the window bars waiting for the train to negotiate a curve so we could catch a glimpse of the smoke-spewing machine ahead. Lying in the topmost berth, I'd gaze at the whirring fans, waiting for daybreak so I could get to the window seat and watch the enchanting countryside go by. Sometimes it would seem like we were taking a ride through a national park. Some of the train stations would be studded with families of monkeys waiting for passengers to throw them scraps of food. And oh, the joy of eating from foodstalls in the stations. And the Higginbothams bookstalls. The semaphore signals. The flag-waving train crew. There was an air of romance about it that made a train journey enjoyable despite the inconvenience that is a hallmark of Indian Railways.

Along with the Indian Penal Code, one of the lasting legacies - in fact the biggest - of the Raj is the Indian Railways. Besides being the prime mover of the country, it is a quintessential part of Indian folklore. Many a Bollywood movie have plots revolving around a railwayman's daughter, a railway train or a train station. If you ask how Indians got their cicardian rhythms to chime to IST (Indian Stretchable Time), the answer is Indian Railways. It is fairly common to find long distance trains running late by a few hours -- some even by 24 hours. For us modern-day Indians, aesthetics have never been as important as functionality. Come look at the railway cars and locomotives. If Indian English seems distinct from any you've heard elsewhere, you can find its roots on the signs, instructions and tickets of Indian Railways. The richest of the rich get to enjoy royal treatment on the luxury trains just as the poorest of the poor get to travel in the Third Class compartments of the regular trains, most often ticketless than on subsidized fares. Despite all its inherent inefficiencies, Indian Railways is a marvelous success story. Just like the Indian Republic.

Long live the Indian Railways!

On The River Cam

2005-06-28T00:33:00.001-07:00

Xian Bill of Rights

2005-06-27T09:22:00.000-07:00

Check this out.

Raindrenched

2005-06-23T19:51:00.000-07:00

My plea was heard.

With due respect to cats and dogs, I have to admit it would be an understatement to say that it rained cats and dogs. It rained in torrents. It rained beautifully. Today was one of those days when I forget my cell phone at home. So I was helplessly unable to take pictures. Instead of photos of trees swaying and water gushing out of storm drains, I have only words here.

In the meantime, I got to show Brute Force that Elegant Skill could also apply brute force to win. After going 3-0 up in the foosball world series (well, my world), Elegant Skill lost 3 games in a row despite the new "gentleman rules." Now, I am back one up. Yay!

[Update: I found my car more thoroughly washed than at Danny's Carousel - now it only needs some waxing. I enjoyed a cool drive back home watching the furious clouds still lashing at each other with their light sabres.]

Sundrenched

2005-06-21T00:18:00.000-07:00

It is now 12:19 am and my WeatherBug says it's 100F outside. We've had about 15 hours of sunlight. The breeze blowing at 6mph feels like a dragon gently breathing out fire. This is just the onset; July and August are looming. And I am seriously considering carrying a set of oven mittens in my car so I'll be able to handle the steering, not to mention that I have to deal with the broken AC.

It is now time for wildfires, and deaths by drowning. Arizona is fortunate that it doesn't happen on this scale.

The Tables Turned

2005-06-18T02:48:00.000-07:00

Here's remembering a favorite Wordsworth poem from high school...

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

Between Heaven and Earth

2005-06-08T09:49:00.000-07:00

I'm hooked to...

virtual reality

2005-06-06T23:50:00.000-07:00

I've written more code in the last two weeks than the previous 52 weeks put together. The result is that I wake up in the middle of the night wondering why the dataset refuses to bind to the datagrid. It's definitely not a problem that I've been trying to solve during the day, it's just that these .NET objects don masks and costumes by nightfall. These days I've been dreaming code in my slumber. One night it is Star Wars and the next night, as if to avoid monotony, it's Lord of the Rings. Sometimes I find myself floating through blocks and blocks of C#. So very Matrix-like. No longer know where illusion ends and reality begins. Just waiting for the phone to ring. And bingo, it does. The alarm clock.

New York, New York

2005-06-05T15:04:00.000-07:00

Not in New York, New York but in Las Vegas, Nevada...

It can't be Arch de Triumph, Paris

2005-06-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

It has to be Arch de Triumph, Las Vegas...

Suggestions welcome...

2005-06-02T23:14:00.000-07:00

I am planning to change my name, and the title of my one and only blog. I can't keep my name. Not after this! I don't want to be known as an inspirator for something so hilariously obscene. (BTW, 'inspirator' was coined collectively by CribbyCrab and myself to refer to someone who is diabolically inspiring. If you really want to know, yes, it was tailor-made for me...) As it is, this one and this one thought The Weblog of David was an unimaginatively vanilla title for the blog of a rather colorful person like me. So, I am looking for a new name for myself, and a new one for my weblog. And my overworked brain keeps suggesting insipid names like David and The Weblog of David. If you have suggestions, do email me at you know where. Thank you.

Sardines at the MGM Grand in viva Las Vegas...

2005-05-29T18:32:00.000-07:00

Wealth and Eccentricity

2005-05-25T22:04:00.000-07:00

What do wealth and eccentricity have in common? Newspaper magnates, railroad tycoons, investment barons. Not unlike today, apparently, there were unimaginably eccentric folks back in those days. In setting the context for a slew of Industrial Age americanisms, Bill Bryson writes in his amusing book, Made in America: An Informal History of the English Language in the United States:

With great wealth came the luxury of eccentricity. James Hill of the Great Northern Railroad reportedly fired an employee because the man's name was Spittles. The servants at J.P. Morgan's London residence nightly prepared dinner, turned down the bed, and laid out nightclothes for their master even when he was known beyond doubt to be three thousand miles away in New York.

Read further if you think this is as weird as it gets:

James Gordon Bennett, a newspaper baron, liked to announce his arrival in a restaurant by yanking the tablecloths from all the tables he passed. He would then hand the manager a wad of cash with which to compensate his victims for their lost meals and spattered attire.

Imagine you're fine dining with your date... Imagine you're planning to propose... Enter Mr. James Gordon Bennett!!!

Though long forgotten in his native land, Bennett and his exploits -- invariably involving prodigious drinking before and lavish restitution after -- were once world-famous, and indeed his name lives on in England in the cry "Gordon Bennett!" -- usually uttered by someone who has just been drenched by a clumsy waiter or otherwise exposed to some exasperating indignity.

Have you been Gordon-Bennetted recently?

Remembering Cambridge

2005-05-24T03:19:00.000-07:00

Remembering my visit to Cambridge - doorway (and doorkeeper?) of the Round Church.

"The Round Church here was founded by a 'Confraternity of the Holy Sepulchre', who were given the land by Abbot Reinald of Ramsey between 1114 and 1130.

The church was built around 1130. It started its life as a wayfarers' chapel but soon became a parish church serviced by the Austin Friars from the nearby Hospital of St John (which later became St John's College)." [Hat tip: Cambridgeshire Churches]

"They were evidently influenced by the round church in Jerusalem called the Church of the Holy Sepulchre built by the Roman Emperor Constantine in the 4th ct. Since they were Normans, recently arrived from France in 1066, they used the Norman or Romanesque style: hence the thick pillars and rounded arches." [HT: Christian Heritage]

The Owl and the Crab

2005-05-22T10:37:00.001-07:00

Let's say you have two friends. A choice two among the many that are scattered all over the planet. Two that you see almost everyday. Two that see you when you are happy and when you are grumpy. Two that you see happy, grumpy and confused. Two that don't need a formal "hey, how are you" when you call them. In fact, the chat goes as if work, sleep, drive or whatever it is that you do, has interrupted the conversation.

Now, let's say you see that they have a creative instinct in them that's simmering within. Something that's been simmering for a long time. Like a cup of water that's boiling over-time begging to be transformed into a delicious little cup of hot chai.

Being the good friend that you are, you decide it's high time they got around to making that cup of chai. But how would you go about it? They might actually be two different people. You might need to use two different strategies. Like inspiration. Or a gentle nudge in the rear.

Exactly.

I used them both. They worked. Like this by inspiration and this by the other.

Psalm 104

2005-05-18T20:04:00.003-07:00

Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment:

Who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain:

Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters:

Who maketh the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind:

Who maketh his angels spirits; his ministers a flaming fire:

Who laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be removed for ever.

Saguaro (Sah-wah'-ro)

2005-05-15T01:46:00.000-07:00

This rather friendly Saguaro stretches out an arm to offer a bunch of its flowers to passers-by. The picture was captured by my phone camera on a hiking trail at Usery Park, Arizona.

Office Assistant

2005-05-12T15:44:00.000-07:00

If you're writing an exhaustively tiresome design document using any Microsoft Office software, and if you're really looking for small thrills to entertain you, do the following:

1. On the menu, click Help --> Show the Office Assistant.
2. If you have the default settings intact, it should show you a thin metal wire friend called Clippit. If you look at him closely, he's actually cute.

3. Right-click on him and say "Animate." Watch his antics and smile profusely.
4. Repeat step 3 till the thought of the word deadline gives you a weird sensation in your tummy. Then it's time for step 5.
5. On the menu, click Help --> Hide the Office Assistant.

Maximum City

2005-05-09T22:29:00.002-07:00

Being a sucker for large cities, I have always been fascinated by Bombay. My first visit to the City was with a boy scout troop as a seventh-grader. With red-and-white scarves 'round our necks as identifiers to keep us from getting lost, we were herded around the city. The sheer amount of people and activity had scared the living heck out of me. Several years later, as I traversed the City with my Bombayite pals, I began to feel its pulse like a local. Recently when I picked up Suketu Mehta's Maximum City, I could not let it go until it sated my appetite for this Urbs Prima in Indus.

Each of us has an inner extremity. Most of us live guarded lives and resist any pull that takes us too far toward this extremity. We watch other people push the limits, follow them up to a point, but are then pulled back, by fear, by family. In Bombay I met people who lived closer to their seductive extremities than anyone I had ever known. Shouted lives. ... on the extreme of violence; ... on the extreme of spectacle; ... on the extreme of gender; ... on the extreme of abandonment. These are not normal people. They live out the fantasies of normal people... And in watching them I followed them closer to my own extremity, closer than I had ever been.

Thus writes Mehta as he concludes his book on the saga that is Bombay, the Maximum City. The metropolis bursting at its seams with its teeming millions, is so many things to so many people. The commercial hub. The tinsel town. The vote bank. The city of dreams. It accomodates everybody. The politician. The slum-lord. The movie-director. The bar dancer. The underworld hitman. The runaway kid. Mehta has done a masterful job in portraying the extreme lives of its assorted inhabitants. In doing so, he shocks you with the disturbing details of their daily lives and soothes, even touches you with their human side. He takes you through a whole range of emotions including frustration, pity, joy, wonder and everything in between. Just like a Bombay local train would take you through both sprawling locales and shanty slums of the city, this book takes you on a thrill ride, all from the comfort of your couch. Who knows, you could even discover your own extremity lived out by one of these characters!

First Lady's Standup Routine

2005-05-02T01:18:00.000-07:00

I happened to be channel-surfing last night and landed on C-Span, the channel that telecasts all the boring sessions from the House and Senate in DC. But last night, they were actually telecasting some White House correspondents' event. The First Lady happened to be doing a rare stand-up routine, and it was unbelievably hilarious. Here are a few of her one-liners I caught:

"One night after George went to bed, Lynne Cheney, Condi Rice, Karen Hughes and I went to Chippendales [apparently it's a male strip club in DC]... I won't tell you what happened, but Lynne's Secret Service code name is now Dollar Bill."

"The amazing thing is that George and I were just meant to be. I was a librarian who spent 12 hours a day in the library, yet somehow I met George."

"People often wonder what my mother-in-law is really like. People think she's a sweet, grandmotherly Aunt Bea(?) type. She's actually more like Don Corleone."

"I'm proud of George. He's learned a lot about ranching since that first year when he tried to milk the horse. What's worse, it was a male horse."

"George always says that he's delighted to come to these press dinners. Baloney. He's usually in bed by now. I'm not kidding. I said to him the other day - George, if you really want to end tyranny in the world, you're going to have to stay up later."

"George's answer to any problem at the ranch is to cut it down with a chainsaw. Which I think is why he and Cheney and Rumsfeld get along so well."

[Addendum: Courtesy Sanchi, here's a link to the video. Check it out if you don't believe me.]

Mariage d'Amour

2005-04-28T10:16:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Manoush, I am officially hooked to Mariage d'Amour by Paul de Senneville. I can't listen to it enough. The more I hear it, the more I am intoxicated by it.

And I can't wait till I finish learning to play it.

A George Davidson rendition of this piece can be downloaded for free on Amazon here.

You're Adventures of Huckleberry Finn!

2005-04-21T11:49:00.000-07:00

You're Adventures of Huckleberry Finn!
by Mark Twain

With an affinity for floating down the river, you see things in black and white. The world is strange and new to you and the more you learn about it, the less it makes sense. You probably speak with an accent and others have a hard time understanding you and an even harder time taking you seriously. Nevertheless, your adventurous spirit is admirable. You really like straw hats.

Oh thank you, thank you! Nice to finally hear someone (or some computer program) say I have an admirable adventurous spirit. But how did he/she/it know I spoke with an accent?

Seeing things in black and white? Increasingly, I see a lot of things gray. Someday I hope to see them in technicolor.

Do you want to hear nice things said about you? Don't ask me. Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.

Hindu Coke

2005-04-17T22:56:00.000-07:00

If you like to try it, follow Suketu Mehta to the heart of Bombay. He will take you through the by-lanes of the bazaar into one of those cold-drink places where you can sit in a booth; look out the window and observe men, women, eunuchs and animals go about their business; and order a Masala Coke. Talking about it in Maximum City, he writes:

This is the same old Coca-Cola you know, the same fizzy brown liquid, but with lemon, rock salt, pepper, and cumin added to it. When the Coke is poured into the glass, which has a couple of teaspoons of the masala waiting to attack the liquid from the bottom up, the American drink froths up in astonished anger. The waiter stands at your booth, waiting till the froth dies down, then puts in a little more of the Coke, then waits a moment more, then pours in the rest. And, lo! it has become Hindu Coke. The alien invader has come into the country. It has been accepted into the pantheon of local drinks but has a little spice added to it, a little more zing. The cocaine is back in the Coke.

"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life."

2005-04-09T16:24:00.000-07:00

Is this true? C'mon, it can't be. After all I'm an offspring of the generation that bore the heavy yoke of British colonialism. I can identify with the contempt almost half of the world shares for the vile English. I can remember feeling horror for my countrymen who were treated like crap in those movies about freedom struggle. My hair still stand on end when I hear Nehru's midnight Tryst with Destiny speech, "while the world sleeps, India awakes to her freedom." And feeling good-we-got-those-bastards-out.

But what is this special affinity I have for England? And London in particular.

It is no coincidence that I took off 4 precious 24-hour periods off my short vacation home to visit that place. Definitely not to spend time with the good ol' pal who answers to the name of Jono. I have never read a biography of a man, let alone the biography of a city. I now find myself hooked to reading Peter Ackroyd's London: The Biography. I'm backing London for hosting the Olympics in 2010. My ears refocus on sounds that sound like the English accent. And I'm even open to seeing Love Actually just because it was shot in familiar London locales.

Perhaps it's just that I love cities with history and character. Could it be that several classic works of literature I grew up reading were written and set in this city? Could it be because the city has such a spectacularly colorful past despite being engulfed in endless gray and cold for half its existence? For one, the city is so large and wild that, as Ackroyd would say, it contains no less than everything? You name it, she has it. In some measure.

I'm in the process of discovering.

Papal Buzz

2005-04-08T18:21:00.000-07:00

The Pope has died. Thousands of obituaries and encomiums have been written and published. Millions made the pilgrimage to Rome, and many millions more mourned his passing. And I woke up at an ungodly hour to watch the telecast of the Requiem Mass.

Now it is time for his critics to come out of the closet. And sure they have...

Jonathan Steele wonders if it was the Pope or Gorbachev that brought down communism in Russia. Read his comment here on Guardian Unlimited.

Poly Toynbee is rather harsh but makes some good observations in her fiery assessment of the Church and the Pope. If you've the courage, read the article here.

Another column on Guardian Unlimited wonders what all this means for Britain and the Church of England. Read "It's as if the Reformation had never happened" by Martin Kettle.

Harrymania

2005-03-31T07:50:00.000-07:00

Courtesy Rachel, here's more Harry Potter trivia:

If all Harry Potter books ever sold were placed end to end, they would go around the equator 1.4 times.

If all the Harry Potter books ever sold were laid flat, they could be used to carpet Monaco 3.7 times.

On its first day of sale in the UK, Harry Potter and the Order of The Phoenix sold at a rate of 21 books per second. If all those books sold in the UK in the first day were stacked up the pile would be 12 times higher than Mount Everest.

If one person were to read every Harry Potter book ever sold - at a rate of one per day - it would take them over 700,000 years to do so.

The total number of Harry Potter books ever sold is more than the populations of Britain, France, Germany and Italy combined.

(Note: all dimensions are based on the Bloomsbury editions and sales figures are based on worldwide sales of the series)

The Tube

2005-03-25T00:33:00.000-07:00

By slow degrees, too, it acquired the familiar characteristics and aspects of the city. Or perhaps it is the case that the city above ground has made a replica of itself below. The Underground has its streets and avenues which the pedestrians quickly recognise and follow. It has its short cuts, its crossroads, its particular features (no escalators at Queensway, deep lifts in Hampstead, long escalators at the Angel) and, just like the city itself, areas of bright lights and bustle are surrounded by areas of darkness and disuse. The rhythms of the city are endlessly mimicked beneath the city, as well as its patterns of activity and habitation.

It is Peter Ackroyd characterizing what lies beneath the city of London in his fascinating book, London: The Biography. The Tube is just one part of subterranean London that comprises of "great vaults and passageways, sewers and tunnels, pipes and corridors." Here's some Tube trivia for you, specially copy-pasted from Wikipedia:

* Albus Dumbledore, headmaster in the Harry Potter book series, has a scar above his knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground.
* An estimated half million mice live on the underground system, mostly running around the tracks.
* The reason that the Underground does not run continuously, i.e. 24 hours a day, is that all track maintenance must be done at night after the system closes - since the Underground does not have express tracks which would have allowed trains to route around maintenance sites. Other transit systems, such as the New York City subway, can run uninterrupted, because they have express tracks which can allow any train to detour around a site where work is being done.
* Only two people have had their coffins transported on the tube: William Gladstone and Dr. Barnardo.
* Regent's Park, Piccadilly Circus, Hyde Park Corner, Westminster, and Bank stations have no associated buildings at or above ground level, the stations, except for access stairs, being entirely underground.
* The 1967 film Quatermass and the Pit (US Title: Five Million Years to Earth) revolves around alien bodies and spacecraft being discovered in the fictional Hobbs End tube station.
* According to Kevin Kline's character Otto in the movie A Fish Called Wanda, the London Underground is a political movement.
* Neil Gaiman's novel Neverwhere, and the BBC television production of the same name, are set in a fantasy world that parallels the structure of the London Underground. On May 13, 1924, a woman named Daisy Hammond gave birth on a Bakerloo Line train at Elephant and Castle. Press reports that the baby had been named Thelma Ursula Beatrice Eleanor were widely reprinted, and not debunked until 2000 when she was traced for a TV interview. In fact she was named Mary Ashfield Eleanor; the chairman of the Underground Group, Lord Ashfield, was her godfather.
* The record for visiting all 275 stations in the shortest possible time currently stands at 18 hours, 35 minutes and 43 seconds. It's held by Geoff Marshall and Neil Blake.

Mangifera Indica

2005-03-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

The short Indian spring is breaking into summer. You know it when the cuckoo begins its early morning ritual song. The Sun rises earlier and lingers much longer into the evening. I can sense the sweat trickling through my sideburns. It's the heat. It's also the season for final exams. It means I have to fish out my textbooks in time to prepare for the exams. And the mad scramble to find notes and solutions to most-likely questions on the exam. A few frantic phone calls to friends to see if they happened to pay attention in the class while a particular Math problem was being solved. I have to deal with the paranoia that I will not be able to answer a single question. What if I flunk? And my daily prayers get more fervent. But still, there is something I am looking forward to. It's not just about getting done with exams. No, it's not even the prospect of a fun 2-month summer break.

It's the season of mangoes. Fresh, ripe and juicy mangoes.

You go to the market, and you can smell them. The whole bazaar is all bright and deep yellow with them. Alphonso, Neelum, Baneshan. There are entire stalls set up just to sell them. Deck upon deck. Happily nested in straw-filled baskets. In baskets of dozens. Suddenly the heat is not an issue anymore. Everyone is thinking mangoes.

Mango salad. Mango lassi. Mango shake. Mango juice. Aam papad.

Relish it in every shape and form. While you're doing that, sit down comfortably. Under the ceiling fan. In front of the TV. Flip to ESPN. If you're lucky, India is drawing that Test match.